2 FEBRUARY 1884, Page 15

POETRY.

TO WORDSWORTH.

POET, whose footsteps trod, the mystic ways

That lead through common things to Nature's shrine ; Whose heart throbbed rhythmic to the heart divine 'That bird, flower, forest, stream, and mountain sways ; We, whose rapt sense thy lyre's fulffervours raise From lowliest themes to absolute harmonies, Mourn that its sturdier strain unechoed dies, Quenched by the lute's sweet plaint and languorous lays. Oh! if by Rydal's laurels and the rills That rush to Rothe down, in Grasmere Vale,

Thy pure ghost linger, or on Esthwaithe's strand ; Speed, on the pinions of some healthful gale, Balmy with breath from thine own Cumbrian hills, To sweep the soft Sirocco from the land.